


Take Responsibility

by SweetDeath



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: F/M, Gender unspecified, Hamilton - Freeform, Lafayette - Freeform, M/M, Other, Please give me feedback and suggestions, Reader Insert, historical violence, i put so much effort into making this historically accurate, reader - Freeform, x Reader, you - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 13:24:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8373817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetDeath/pseuds/SweetDeath
Summary: You ran like a coward. You might die like one.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I had to crack out my history book for this u guys better appreciate it  
> Also i have no idea where this is going so i'll take suggestions from the comments about how u guys want this to end? So please comment and give feedback thanks babe uwu

The situation was helpless. Tension between America and Britain was nearly at its breaking point and you stuck in the middle of it. Being a British soldier, you had signed up to support your home country, not to die for it. You actually admired America’s ideas but if you switched sides now the Crown would think of you as a traitor and the revolutionaries would think of you as a spy. The was no way around it. You joined the King’s Army, young and naïve and glorifying war. War was nothing to be honored.

War is children crying in the street because their parents are gone and their home was burnt down. War is seeing bone under the thin skin of a person from a nearby town. War is feeling cobblestone beneath your feet with each step because your shoes have been worn through all the running. You regretted joining the army with every fiber of your being.

You remember the first day you joined the Redcoats. That was what the colonists called you, anyway. Bright eyed and bushy tailed, you were ready to fight nobly, to save dames in need of your aid, to break up tavern fights. You were a foot soldier and put in charge of mundane tasks, but that was no problem for you. You were stationed in Boston because of the colonists’ opposition to the Townshend Acts. As a citizen of Great Britain, you couldn't understand why the Americans were so upset over their taxes. You were taxed more heavily than them. After arriving in the Americas, you saw first phantom how they were taxed for paper, how soldiers lived in their houses, how their taxes were for purely lucrative purposes for Britain's economy instead of supporting their local government and communities. It felt odd knowing that. Fellow soldiers would laugh at your uneasiness when you talked about their taxes, reminding you that they had soldiers guarding them for their safety and that the King was only withdrawing the salutary neglect he had toward the Americas, which was a good thing, they supposed.

Everything was fine, except for the nearly tangible bitterness towards your uniform as you paraded the streets. You were civil towards the colonists and hated living in their houses, and they favored you for that. You've never ran into any trouble before with the colonists personally, except for maybe breaking apart a bar fight or two. You've heard plenty of stories of confrontation from other kingsmen, so you were deemed lucky by your regiment. 

That day you were on your daily rounds. You made pleasant conversation with the wives of Loyalists when they would come by their windows to greet you; you had become quite popular among the women and some men due to your friendliness and flirtation. Patriots tended to glare at you from a distance but you treated them with nothing but civility, so some eventually softened and would say “hello” on a good day. You were talking to an old woman that day.

“My, you just grow handsomer each day I see you!” She laughs, already waiting by her doorway for you.  
“Now, Mrs. Lewis, if your husband finds out you're attempting to court me, he'll chase me back to Britain!” You chastised her teasingly.  
She scoffed, “Oh, please, I know he flirts with you more than I do.” You laughed. “Ah, you may be right about that, my dear.”  
Mrs. Lewis shook her head slightly, “Now, go on and court some young people, I'm too old for you.” She shooed you away. Such a lonely woman. Her husband was a busy man and had no time for her, much like almost every other woman in the colonies. Her children had long since flown the coop and she was lonely, and you had no reservations in flirting with the men and women of the town.

“Mrs. Lewis, may I say your hair looks absolutely lovely today? You may say it's gray but I will disagree and always say it’s the same silver that pirates and scoundrels fight for overseas.” She turned pink and waved her hand dismissively but the grin on her face grew. “Truly, madam.” You hesitated. “You are as lovely as always, but I have to continue my rounds before my commander notices how I talk instead of doing my job. I'll see you again tomorrow. Good day.” You bowed at the waist to her in a dramatic show. She laughed and covered her smile with her hand. 

“Alright, if you insist. Say hello to Mary for me, I know she's the next woman on your long list of-” A loud gunshot echoed in the air. Your blood ran cold and Mrs. Lewis’ hands dropped to her chest, grasping the cloth above her heart. Your eyes met hers and you didn't know what to do. You never had to do anything physical yet, especially nothing to do with your gun. The air was still. 

“Go.” The old woman whispered and your feet suddenly regained the ability to move. You ran towards where the gunshot came from, then several followed it. They were getting louder but the guns were built to be loud. The houses and shop windows flew by, your boots pounding furiously over the cobblestone. The gun on your back jumped up and down as if knew it was going to be used soon and couldn't wait any longer to shed blood. You heard screams from men and women in the distance and your heart beat deafeningly loud in your ears.

Smoke curled around a street corner and you knew you were close. Rounding that corner, there was a massacre. Blood trickled between the cobblestone and there were bodies on the ground. Soldiers with smoking guns stood, breathing heavily. Clamshells, rocks, and melting snowballs littered the ground around them. The clearing was empty except for them and yourself. Colonist bodies stared up into the sky with wide, blank eyes and some lay face down with hair and clothing splayed around their stone faces. Your heart slithered up your throat and died that day. It was the Boston Massacre. 

Ever since then, relations between Britain and America have grown exponentially worse. The Gaspee Incident, The Boston Tea Party, Lexington and Concord. You somehow lived through every battle you were placed in; maybe it was Lady Luck giving you another chance at life or maybe She just wanted to see you suffer. Maybe you lived from hiding among the bodies of your fallen companions like the coward you were. There was no bravery, no courage left in you to fight for the Crown. The battles became a simple matter of life and death. You wanted no more part in it. You would burn your uniform and flee into the colonies and never look back. 

You were planning to leave under the cover of darkness and a foggy night, when the startling red of your uniform would be the least visible. All of your normal clothing was bloodstained and time-worn, and the military uniform was the only costume you could wear, unless running through freezing nights in your underwear suddenly became a good idea. You had crept away from camp after pushing back the rebels and then failing to keep your distance; the Patriots had ended up pushing the King’s Army back instead. You ran away during retreat and your squadron leader most likely assumed you were dead, so walking into camp on under the guise of belonging in a different battalion was surprisingly easy. 

Now, as your feet skidded through the mud in what you thought was New York, you ran. You ran and ran and never looked back. You reached a town after what felt like hours. The only obstacle in your way was your uniform now. Ditch it and freeze to death or get caught and be filled with lead. Pick your poison. You decided to stay warm. At least if the rebels caught you, you wouldn’t have to face the indignity of dying in your knickers. Wind whistles through the town square that you found yourself in. It was dark but the sky was indigo instead of pitch black now. A ruckus came from somewhere in the east.

A door swung open and shut from where the noise was coming from; it was laughter. A tall man walked out of the tavern, quite inebriated. He was alone and laughing to himself. He was a Patriot because no self-respecting Loyalist merchant would be drinking at this hour. You dived behind one of the many crates littering the street, empty and ready to be broken apart in a brawl fight. Stumbling and blubbering incoherent sentences, he eventually limped out of sight. You waited until the man’s heavy footsteps had faded before standing from behind the crates. You had just let out a sigh when a large hand grasped across your collarbone mercilessly and knife pressed on your throat, fierce enough that it drew blood. 

“I didn’t know rats roamed the city at this time of night.” A thick French accent growled into your ear, “I always thought you Redcoats preferred to see the blood of innocents on your hands with the sun’s light. I suppose it would just blend in with your clothes, wouldn’t it?” The man snarled, voice full of promises of violence and pain. 

“Blood dries black on red fabric.” You said, mind blank and spitting out facts that you learned the hard way. Your hands scratched uselessly at his own around your neck but you didn’t dare touch the knife in fear that he would take the plunge and slit open your veins. He jerked you backwards into an alley. Practically dragging you, due to his height over you. You could feel his muscles under his expensive coats, and though you couldn’t see his face or identify his status, the feel of his coats was far finer than the British clothing you wore in the army. The man was strong and in a much better condition than you. He could snap you like a twig.

“How many of you are there?” He wasn’t asking, he was demanding. You could feel blood trickle down your neck.  
“Just me, sir. I ran from the battlefield.” He wasn’t satisfied with your answer. “I swear on my life.” The man laughed. Your life meant nothing to him.  
“I was planning on getting a drink tonight, but instead I find a Redcoat waltzing around the bar. I have friends in there waiting for me. Shall I call for them?” Your legs kicked frantically, struggling to get away from the man.  
“No, please, sir, don’t! I’m telling the truth! I’m a coward and I ran from my station in the heat of battle, I don’t like fighting anymore, sir, please, I don’t want to fight anymore.” Your struggling grew weak with lack of oxygen and lack of conviction. If you were to die in this Patriot’s arms, it would be better than having a Patriot die _in_ your arms and you couldn’t bear to live with that guilt. “I just want to live away from the battlefield, I just want to live, sir.”

The man didn’t seem very convinced, but he was more sure that you were alone; after all, he had not been ambushed yet. He ordered you to stay still with your hands behind your head and when you complied he searched you for a weapon. He found nothing. He begrudgingly introduced himself to you.  
“I am Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette. You may address me as Sir or as Lafayette.”  
Lafayette’s posture was stiff as he stepped away from you, cautiously watching to make sure you didn’t escape. He seemed unsure if he should call for his friends for backup, to let you go, or to kill you here and end all of this conflict.  
“Sir Lafayette, please, if you let me go I will not go back to Britain; I’ll do whatever you say, sir. I’ll stay in these colonies for the rest of my life, I’ll boycott, I’ll be a Patriot, I’ll do anything for you to just let me go.” You pleaded. The sky was just barely a shade lighter than before, but the fact that you could tell proved that day was fast approaching. Lafayette stared at you hard and long before responding.  
“Fine.”  
“Sir?”  
“Fine. I’ll go inside and grab my friends. If you’re gone, then I’ll know you are a spy and we will find you. The townspeople will punish you however they want after that,” A soft gasp filled your lungs. “And if you are still here when I return, it means you are barely more trustworthy than most redcoats or you’re at least an awful spy. Does that sound about right?” His wild hair, tied back, bounced as he cocked his head.  
“Yes, sir.”

He walked backwards as he retreated into the tavern, never taking his eyes off of you for a second until he disappeared through its doorway. You felt your neck. Warm, sticky blood pooled at your fingertips and seeped into the thin, rootlike indents on your fingers. A bruise was definitely formed. The sky was too light to be waiting around like this. If you were to run, it was a toss up chance that you could either escape to safety and possibly even live with the Natives, as their relationship with the British was much happier than with the Americans or you could run and be caught, tortured, and killed, if you were lucky. It’d be a blessing to get away with being tarred and feathered at this point. You shivered. The night air blew harder and you drew your red overcoat more tightly around you and slumped down against the alley wall. What terrible luck you have.

Soon, the silhouettes of four men come out; one petite, one slightly larger, one tall, and one absolutely massive. They spin their heads around looking for you, hair bristling, as Lafayette takes the lead. The men tower above you but you don’t rise to meet them. The shortest one grabs the front of your shirt and roughly pulls you up, practically throws you. He takes hold of your neck and you can feel new bruises forming and the blood clot being undone, the bleeding fresh again. They all look positively vicious, but the gigantic one is slightly further back than the others; he’s the backup. If you were to escape, by some miracle, he could pick you up and crush your entire body in one try if he wanted to.  
“What do you want, filth?” The one strangling you asked.  
“No, they already answered. ‘I just want to live away from the battle.’” Lafayette laughed, “Don’t we all?”  
“So what do we do with them? Kill ‘em? Turn ‘em in?” The taller one asked.  
“Or should we just take care of them ourselves?” The biggest one suggested threateningly.  
You took a slow, quivering breath to gather your senses. “Sirs, please. I’m just a foot soldier, I don’t have much fighting value,” You paused, then introduced yourself to all of them.  
“Hamilton.”  
“Laurens.”  
“Mulligan.”

Hamilton lowered you back to the ground and loosened his grip around your throat, letting you finally breathe right. He didn’t release it, though, and turned to Lafayette and whispered something to him. His face lit up and it occurred to you that he was actually quite handsome. Dark, blemish free skin, wild hair, tall, French. At least you had something pretty to look at as you died.  
“Of course, Monsieur.”

Lafayette stared you down as Hamilton let his hand fall away. “Undress.”  
“Pardon?!” You fisted your hands in your coat, gathering it closer to you. Mulligan looked the most flustered, Hamilton mortified, Laurens muffling his laughter in his sleeve. Lafayette looked very confident. “No, Lafayette, the coat! The red coat!”  
“Hmm?”  
Mulligan dragged his hand over his face. “Not ‘undress’, it’s ‘take off your coat,’” he sighed.  
“That is the same thing, no?”  
“ _No!_ ” Laurens snickered.

Mulligan faced you, the two of you equally embarrassed. “He means take off your overcoat, not all of your clothes…” You let out a breath of relief.  
As you slipped the bright red coat off, you were very aware of the eyes of the four men on you as you stood in your underclothes. The cold wind caused you to shiver and Lafayette looked you up and down deliberately. Then he grabbed your coat and traded it for his. You were baffled.  
“You will come with me and I will deal with you now.”  
You spared a glance at Hamilton, the one who seemed to be the leader of the gang. He raised an eyebrow at you, daring you to argue.  
“I will figure out what to do with you later. It is almost sunrise now,” Lafayette explained, and he was right. The sky was a bloody pink. “But for now, we must keep you safe.” He looped your arm through his and held onto you tightly. He began walking and the trio behind you said their goodbyes to Lafayette.  
“You are now my responsibility.”


End file.
